Page 1 of The Woman in the Garage

CHAPTER ONE

Dasha

The cute duck and bunny mug was going to be a problem.

To be fair, when I bought my mug collection—usually picked up as impulse buys on the winding line at HomeGoods—I hadn’t ever imagined piling them onto an—equally cutesy—floral plastic tray with my—blessedly basic white—carafe to serve coffee to a bunch of strange men.

Ideally, I would have gone to a coffee shop and grabbed a bunch of to-go cups for everyone. But, well, the cost of a cup of coffee was astronomical lately. And I wasn’t exactly rolling in it.

Moving across the country was expensive.

So homemade coffee, it was. With a side of homemade oatmeal cookies. Because I was really trying to make a good first impression, dammit.

Surely, there was one guy in the garage who would be comfortable enough in his masculinity to take the bunny and ducky cup.

I brought up my leg to balance the tray so I could reach for the giant old keychain full of no fewer than twenty different keys of every different shape and size—each of them sporting that awful, strong metallic scent that clung to my fingers afterward.

But just as I was about to stick the key in the lock, the door swung open, revealing a man in navy blue coveralls heavily stained with various greases and oils.

He towered over me, casting a shadow over my face, blocking that harsh yellow early morning sun, so I could actually get a good look at him.

Under his jumpsuit, he seemed long and lean. His face was angular and handsome with hazel eyes and a slightly shaggy crop of golden brown hair that was streaked lightly with some salt-and-pepper.

Totally hot. If too old for me.

“You must be Dasha,” he said, gaze moving downward over me, making me quickly grab the tray so I could lower my knee.

Being in a pirate pose while in a flowing floral sundress was probably not the best first impression. Such was my life, though. I wasn’t sure I’d ever made a good first impression. I was a fumbler and bumbler and a bit too much of a try-hard, which always made me come off a bit too peppy or fake, even if all I wanted was for people to, you know, like me.

“That’s me,” I said, smiling up at him. “I didn’t think anyone would beat me here,” I admitted.

It was half past five, for goodness’ sakes. This guy looked like he’d already been up for hours.

“I open the shop,” he explained. “David,” he said, still blocking my path.

“Right. The shop manager,” I said, nodding.

That whole ‘try-hard’ thing definitely applied to the way I sat poring over the employee files, learning everyone’s names, positions, and as much general information as I could glean from my uncle’s notes. Though he didn’t have any pictures of anyone, so I was in the dark with that until I officially introduced myself to them.

“Yep,” he agreed, finally stepping to the side to let me pass.

The front of the shop still carried with it all those greasy and metallic scents from the garage—likely thanks to the stains all over the front desk, the doors, and even the walls.

That was one of my first orders of business: give the whole place a good clean. It was kind of obvious that the place hadn’t seen a mop or cleaning rag in years. Possibly decades.

“Did anyone else beat me in?” I asked, inwardly cringing at setting my nice tray on the dirty front counter.

“Just me. Everyone else rolls in around six-thirty or seven. That’s what you wear to work at a garage?” he asked, gaze skimming down me again.

“Well, I don’t plan on rotating any tires today,” I said, smoothing my hands down my dress.

That got a little snorting laugh out of David, and I figured I maybe just made a new ally. Which I might need. I figured it wasn’t going to be easy for a group of men who were used to male leadership to suddenly be dealing with not only a female boss, but one who was a stranger, and likely younger than most of them.

I mean, it wasn’t like this was what I planned for my life either. But here we were.

“Fair enough,” David said. “That coffee or some fancy coffee-like shit?”

“It’s coffee,” I said, pulling my shoulders back a bit. “And there is creamer in the—“

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